<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Fowl Murder by ActualMango</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25267984">Fowl Murder</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ActualMango/pseuds/ActualMango'>ActualMango</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Crack, Gen, Inspired by the sweet satisfaction of outrunning a cliff racer, This Is STUPID, This probably isn't canon compliant but oh well</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 07:40:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,177</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25267984</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ActualMango/pseuds/ActualMango</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jiub may now be named Saint Jiub the Eradicator, but many forget exactly how he earned that title.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Fowl Murder</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The year was 3E 428, and Rowan heard a knock on the door. That wasn’t unusual, of course - there were knocks on the door every day, from all manner of salesmen and tax collectors and stern-looking officials. Rowan was an ordinary citizen of Vos in all but one respect, and ordinary citizens of Vos got knocks at the door.</p><p>She got up from her chair, leaving a well-worn copy of <em>The Song of Gods</em> on a side table, and unlocked the wards on the door (near useless in a Telvanni town, but they provided some peace of mind) before she answered. Dithering on the mushroom-root stoop stood a bald, scarred Dunmer man, wearing roughspun clothes and a creased frown. He looked thoroughly out-of-place among the colourful fungi interspersing the Imperial stone.</p><p>“Are you the woman known as Rowan?” His voice was as rough as gravel - the trademark of a lifetime on Vvardenfell</p><p>“Yeah, that’s me.” She had the itching feeling that she’d seen him before. “Why?”</p><p>“May I come in?”</p><p>Rowan considered for a moment. An ordinary citizen of Vos would probably let him in without demanding his name and business on the doorstep. “Sure. Wipe your boots if you’ve come from the Grazelands.” She stepped aside to let him in. The mer had to stoop to fit through the doorway, and the top of his head nearly brushed the lower ceiling around the edge of the pod. He smelt like the plains - wickwheat and fresh sea air blown in from the east. Her own home was thick with the smells of old paper and alchemy and just the faintest tang of metal. It was a comfort to her.</p><p>“If you’re staying a while, would you like tea? I’ve got...” she rummaged through a pot, holding little sachets up to the light, “comberry or bittergreen, if it matters.”</p><p>“Comberry, if you wouldn’t mind.” He sat down where Rowan gestured with a quiet <em>thank you</em>, watching her bustle about. He seemed well-mannered for a toughened adventurer - if that was what he was. He certainly seemed the type, and adventurers were often more than met the eye, Rowan included. She couldn’t shake the scratch of recognition in her head. She couldn’t have seen him in High Rock, or Skyrim - he would have stood out like an ascended sleeper wandering the Foreign Quarter.</p><p>Once the tea was ready, she brushed a pile of papers off the table to make room for mugs, and sat down opposite him, sinking into the cushions on her chair with a sigh. The sight of such a fierce-looking native sitting daintily with a Breton cup of tea brought a smile to Rowan’s face. She gave them both a chance to take a couples of sips - it was a little watery - before pressing forwards. “So, what’s your name, Sera? Why are you here?”</p><p>“Jiub,” he said. “Do you - do you, perhaps, recognise the name?”</p><p>She frowned, running through the names she knew in her head. “Not particularly,” she said, twizzling a lock of red hair around her finger. “Sorry.”</p><p>“Oh, it’s no problem,” he said. He was very still - like a hunk of rock. She <em>swore</em> she recognised him. “We didn’t meet for long. But anyway, I’m sure you want me to hurry up.”</p><p>She only smiled sheepishly - he wasn’t wrong.</p><p>“Not to be too dramatic,” he continued, “but I’ve heard rumours. Rumours of a great hero, the Nerevarine, and who they really are.”</p><p>Rowan sat up a little straighter.</p><p>“Some say the person who defeated Dagoth Ur is a Khajiit. Some say a proud Redoran. Some say Nerevar himself, in flesh as well as spirit.” <em>She was an ordinary citizen of Vos, she was an ordinary citizen of Vos, she had no idea what this mer was on about-</em> “But one detail that nearly everyone knows is that the Nerevarine stepped onto Morrowind’s soil at Seyda Neen, on the 16th of Last Seed, 3E 427.” He leaned forward, a glint in his harsh eye. “And I was there to witness you leave the ship that brought you there.”</p><p>Rowan didn’t speak for a moment. She couldn’t. Her mouth wouldn’t form the words. And then she <em>remembered</em>.</p><p>“I know you!” she squealed, loudly enough to make Jiub flinch, even as his otherwise stern face cracked into a grin. “Sorry,” she amended. “But yes, I remember you! From the boat!” Her tea almost ended up on the floor in her excitement, and she put it down before it went flying. A little slopped over the side and onto the table, but she ignored it.</p><p>“It took a long time to track you down,” he said. “When I came to hear that someone matching both your description and that of the Nerevarine had settled in Vos, of all the places, I could scarcely believe it. I had to find you.”</p><p>“Right,” Rowan said, wary again. She carefully picked her mug back up, wrapping her fingers around the warm pottery. “Why did you want to find me?”</p><p>“I have no intention to reveal your identity!There’s no need to worry about that,” he said quickly. He paused for a moment before he continued, as if preparing his words. “But when you defeated that devil Dagoth Ur, you saved all of Morrowind. Possibly all of Tamriel. I thought it only courteous to find some way to repay you. I, of course, am probably one of the only people who can do it.” He scratched at the scar decorating his eye. “It would be my pleasure to do you a favour, and practically no deed at all in face of your triumph.”</p><p>Rowan twisted her mouth, considering. “You have nothing to gain from this? Nothing at all?” He was looking at her with an odd intensity - the kind of intensity she’d wanted to get away from. It was why she was in a remote Telvanni town, rather than Balmora, or Ald’ruhn - people there knew her, and they were obsessed with knowing her. Some despised her, others were like Jiub, and yet more were simply looking to curry favour. She was fed up with them all.</p><p>“Well,” Jiub said with a sheepish smile, “it would no doubt go some way towards my redemption. I was on that prison boat for a reason, after all. But materially? Politically? Not at all. This is simple gratitude.”</p><p>“Alright.” Rowan cocked her head for a moment to look at the ceiling. What favour could she take advantage of? A few years before, she would have jokingly asked for him to take care of Dagoth Ur, although that was moot now (and if it wasn’t, she had bigger problems). Simply asking for some nice trinket or rare artifact felt wrong too. Surely she could think of something that would better the whole of Vvardenfell.</p><p>Then her eyes fell on a book, chucked haphazardly onto a shelf. <em>The Dangerous Denizens of Resdayn</em>.</p><p>“Cliff racers,” she said finally, snapping her head back to look at Jiub. He had been politely sipping his tea, waiting. “As many cliff racers out of Vvardenfell or dead as you can help. Preferably all of them.” She paused for a moment as she remembered the countless times she’d been attacked on the roads, or in the thickest storms of Red Mountain, or when she was just trying to get some damn rest. “Too many damn cliff racers,” she muttered to herself.</p><p>Jiub probably should have been appalled, taken aback, even just worried, but instead his face held only awe. “Yes! You’re right, there are far too many of those vermin around. Just on my way here we had to stop to beat off a swarm of them.”</p><p>“And the constant <em>screeching</em>. You can hear them even in the centre of Ald’ruhn.”</p><p>“And the scat. Everywhere! Absolutely everywhere!”</p><p>“And there’re so many of them. It’s ridiculous! Whoever thought rats should be allowed to take to the skies...”</p><p>They complained in true Dunmer fashion about cliff racers for a few enjoyable minutes, before Jiub stood up and turned for the door. “Well, thank you for the tea, Nerevarine. Rowan. Wish me luck.”</p><p>“Wait, so soon?” she said, standing up as well. “If you’re serious - how exactly are you going to do this?”</p><p>Jiub frowned. “I... hadn’t thought about that, frankly. I tend to make these things up as I go along. Although that <em>is</em> why I ended up in prison.”</p><p>“Stay here a while,” Rowan said. “I’m not sending you out there against the entire cliff racer population of Vvardenfell without some assistance.” She beckoned him back inside. “Just let me think...”</p><p>No doubt she had something that could help him. It was hard not to collect an array of weapons and armour and potions and gods only knew what else when adventuring across this island. But something told her he wouldn’t want too much bolstering - this was partly for his own redemption.</p><p>Possibly something that at least had some sort of curse, or downside. What would Jiub need to chase down cliff racers? They were fast little buggers, after all...</p><p>“Follow me,” she said, halfway across her house before she even realised it. It was a maze of books and musical instruments and half-abandoned projects of every sort, but she left Jiub to thread his way through them while she unlocked an innocuous-looking door set into the side of the mushroom. She sneezed from the swirling dust as it swung open to a dim passage, tunnelled through the walls. It was genius, if she said so herself - almost all of the pods were thick enough to take at least a secret storage compartment or ten. No one ever thought of it.</p><p>Rowan winced as her bum ankle struggled down the ramp. Jiub just looked around curiously as they descended, the only light being the spell she sent above their heads. “Fascinating. I suppose keeping your identity secret must be a challenge.”</p><p>“And having a collection of legendary items lying around doesn’t help with my ‘innocent little Breton’ alibi,” she finished for him, as the ramp levelled out into the floor of an underground room underneath her house, stuffed to the brim with swords and jewellery and chests. But instead of something flashy like a sword or piece of jewellery, she made a beeline for a pair of boots lying almost forgotten on the end of a shelf, holding the faintest enchanted shimmer in the dim light.</p><p>“What are those? What are they made of?”</p><p>She handed them to him. “Netch leather, but that’s not the important aspect. Try putting them on. They should fit - they were always too big for me unless I stuffed them.” He did as she asked. As soon as they were securely on his feet he lost his balance, waving his arms around and almost knocking Goldbrand off its rack. “I can’t see!”</p><p>“It’s a side effect. Try running.” She grinned as she helped him up - which he couldn’t see, of course.</p><p>Jiub nodded and took a step. A few moments later, he crashed into the opposite wall. Luckily, it was undecorated. “Ow.” His voice came muffled from its source, smushed into the wall. “Is this a joke? May I take these off?”</p><p>“Sure,” she said. “And no, it’s not a joke.” Jiub rid himself ungracefully of the boots, looking at them with distaste as he held them out again for her to take. She didn’t take them. “The Boots of Blinding Speed. You go <em>really</em> fast, but you can’t see, which makes them practically useless.”</p><p>“Then why give them to me? I’m grateful, of course, but-”</p><p>“Don’t worry. You don’t have to pretend to be grateful yet.” Jiub looked a little guilty. “But it would be helpful, right? To run as fast as the racer flies?”</p><p>“Well, certainly. Am I missing something?” Having been denied the chance to get rid of the boots, he tucked one under each arm, although Rowan noticed him blinking rather rapidly, as if he were making sure he could still see.</p><p>“I think... yeah, I’ll just demonstrate. Do you know any spells to resist magic?”</p><p>--</p><p>After his final triumph over the cliff racers of Vvardenfell, the popular image of Saint Jiub the Eradicator was of him riding a silt strider, plucking flying vermin from the sky like farmers plucked fruit from a vine. It was an image of grace, of skill, of rigorous planning tempered perfectly with a little spontaneity. However, very few talk of the early days. Days when, in the farthest reaches of the Ashlands, or the most isolated islands of Azura’s Coast, or among the barren crags of Molag Amur, there was a lone man. Clad in only a pair of netch leather boots and tattered trousers, he ran around like a maniac, as fast as the wind, screeching as loudly as the cliff racers he stabbed and shot and spelled out of the sky only to reveal more. It was not a picture of grace, or of skill, or of planning.</p><p>But godsdamn, he was having the time of his life.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>